


paradise lost

by rayfelle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Gen, alternative universe, vampire!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8608516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayfelle/pseuds/rayfelle
Summary: Harry wakes to sharp teeth and eyes a periwinkle blue. Skin against his skin, breath against his neck, whispers about a dept pain in blood.And a vampire is born.





	

It all goes to hell when the bells ring midnight and night is coated in ice and fear.

Harry is fifteen and there are dementors before him, Dudley next to him (on the ground, shivering, breathing hard, _blind_ ). He is fifteen and his wand is useless, somewhere in the tunnel. Such power he had ( _magic, the elders sing_ ), so useless once there is nothing to use it with.

The fingers clamped around Harry’s jaw are grey and rotting flesh on black bones. The face under the veil a black nothing, but a mouth still opens and his soul _screams_ somewhere deep down in him.

And then the walls break and something with no shadows chases the creatures of fear away.

…

Harry wakes to sharp teeth and eyes a periwinkle blue. Skin against his skin, breath against his neck, whispers about a dept pain in blood.

“What, what is… what are you…?” His body shivers and gasp flows instead of words. A take of breath, a twitch of his fingers. “Why?” The boy moans towards the starry night sky laid out above him.

( _sleep poor child, sleep. for you will wake up a monster now, she sings_ )

Long hair cascade around the woman’s face when she rises over him, lips painted in red blood. She smiles and it’s almost with love and care. “Oh, you poor thing. Don’t worry, I am making you _better_.” She purrs and kisses Harry sweetly, almost like a lover.

And a vampire is born.

…

Silence from his friends, silence from everyone. But Harry’s anger burns strong, his veins now flowing with more power than ever. There is still magic, just as powerful as ever and so hard to control.

The sun hurts him. The noises are too loud.

And then the Order comes and picks him up, like an unruly child that doesn’t know better.

Harry has his magic and his anger, he hates everyone equally – especially those that haunt his nightmares.

 …

Dumbledore’s orders, _but he is just a child_ , secret societies. Walburga Black snarls her curses at him ( _son of a mudblood, dirty nothing, traitor and dirt under my shoes_ ), Kreacher narrows his eyes as if he can smell Harry’s secret (the new one, not the old ones from years before).

“Oh, Harry! I am so sorry, you must be so angry with us. But Dumblefore made us promise not to tell you anything, to keep quiet. Oh no, I am so sorry, Harry.” Hermione looks worried and relieved all at once, her breath hitching with every word.

Ron simply shrugs, as if this whole thing was bigger than him ( _and it was, it really was_ ). “Sorry mate. Like she said, we couldn’t really tell you things. Even though we’ve been here since the start of summer.”

And Harry, a monster newly born, hurt and betrayed once more. He simply breathes, “You hurt me. I don’t know if I can forgive you for that.” Words were weapons too, as it turns out.

…

They sit along the long table, Harry next to Remus and Sirius, away from his friends ( _there are new wounds there, new hurts_ ). The werewolf looks at him with wide eyes, unblinking and irises shrunken thin. Sirius tightens his spider fingers around the boy’s forearm.

“Harry, when… How did that happen? _Why_ did that happen to you?” Remus leans close and his fingers carve paths in the old wood. The rest of the Order stares at them in surprise and fear, confusion writhing in the cracks.

Harry tilts his head and licks his fangs (but no one notices, since magic is good at ignoring the obvious). “Last week. She was kind, gentle.” The corners of his mouth twitch in a smile, the sharpness of his vampire shining through.

Remus stays as alert and as worried as he was, regret for what was to come deep and clear the eyes of another monster (the both of them, now, more alike than ever before). “Oh, Harry… A vampire, of all things.”

Pandemonium is open for show.

….

Molly screams for justice, retribution. Because Harry is a child, too young to be involved, too innocent to be turned, too everything ( _but Harry had never been, not after the night of murder and vanquish_ ). Dumbledore comes to demand answers, even when his eyes stray from Harry’s and lies still stick to what the old man says.

Harry is hungry. Harry is tired. Harry has a headache and a temper.

“There is no way to fix this, Molly. Once he has been turned it is, unfortunately, permanent. Like a werewolf bite.” Remus smiles and it’s sarcastically amused, dark around the edges. Because he knows, better than anyone sat in the dark kitchen, what it means to be a monster.

Molly breathes, her face red and hot. “But he is a _child_ , Remus! He cannot know about Order business and we need to fix his, his _little problem_!” She glares at her own children, at Harry, at Dumbledore and Remus. As if they are all responsible, each for their own crimes (knowledge, right, curse, false crimes).

“I actually like my little problem, Misses Weasley.” Harry smiles once more, his fangs glint in the candle light. “And I have never been a child; my relatives beat that out of me early on.” Dark truths are so easy to reveal now. Like cheesy jokes.

…

They tiptoe around him (but not Sirius or Remus, they know the differences of monsters and _monsters_ ), they whisper behind his back, they plot and they fear ( _now, only now_ ). But Harry hears and he doesn’t hide.

“Harry, dear, aren’t you hungry?” Molly asks during dinner, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth and eyes jumping from one dish to another. Ignorance is her way of dealing, pretending the problem is gone.

Harry is hungry, but not for potatoes and carrots, not for the normal kind of food. “I’m okay, Misses Weasley. Thank you.” Politeness is also a form of defense, a way to hide (Aunt Petunia had taught him that much, at least). His fangs itch, his fingers never stop moving.

But he has lived most of his life in hunger, a few more years is nothing in the face of it all.

(later, Tonks offers her bare arm and smiles in radiant warmth, _go for it, cousin. I know you want to_ )

…

Black horses meet him at the station. Their skin is snake scales, wings spanning wide above the mud. Harry stares and they stare back. He feels a familiarity between them, a different magic.

“It’s okay, I see them too.” A dreamy voice floats next to Harry; a high giggle accompanies the rustle of the horse’s wings. “Lovely, aren’t they?”

“Do you know what they are? I’ve never seen them before now.” Harry reaches out to touch, to pet, but changes his mind. Better not. Too soon, too fast, too scared ( _fear is still alive, still there_ ). They are beautiful, these horses.

Luna takes his hand and looks at the pale skin stretched too far over Harry’s fingers. “Testrals, they come hand in hand with death.” She blinks her wide eyes once, and then kisses the knuckles of his fingers. “You seem better, Harry Potter. Vampire skin suits you more than the human one. Come find me when you need to. I won’t mind.”

…

Dumbledore still doesn’t meet his eyes. There are secrets Snape still does not know ( _relief_ ). Umbridge plans a revolt, an uprising in the school that taught her what she knows, a long time ago.

( _her dementors never succeeded, no letter was sent, no court hearing held. The scales sway, but not on her side_ )

“Harry, you _cannot_ let her know about you. She hates everyone who is, well… _Not human_.” Hermione whispers the next day during lunch, her robes holding the scent of old books and newspapers. “She will do horrible things, painful things.” Fear for a friend ripples through her bones.

Friendship is more valuable than hurt, Harry knows. He still knows how to forgive, so the worry is welcomed, the friendship mended and his smile warm.

Ron stabs his steak with the fork, a frown distorting the youth of his face. “She made it hard for werewolves to get jobs.” His appetite is lacking, today. Blue eyes stare far away, he remembers the papers scarred with Umbridge’s name.

…

Potions are a nightmare. The smell, the sounds, the itching along his skin that never leaves – Harry feels wrong, sick. Like exposure to sunlight, the fire burns his skin red and scolded in places; the fumes choke the air he breathes.

Snape takes off points. Harry just tries not to let the blue of his eyes shine ( _periwinkle blue, just like hers_ ).

Umbridge riles him up with sweet lies and taunts. Her mouth stretched into an ugly line across her face, the pink of her clothes acid in color. “Lies, Potter. The Dark Lord is gone and Diggory was an accident of the Tournament. Detention.”

It burns. The hate burns. ( _his hand, it will burn too, soon_ )

…

“I took over your detention with that woman, Mister Potter.” McGonagall starts as Harry walks though the door of her office. “I know about your condition and, I am sure, you are aware that it should be better if she does not find out about it as well.”

Harry chuckles, slides his fingers along the back of his hand. It tingles, still sensitive from potions. “Hermione told me, about what Umbridge thinks of half-breeds.” And he is one, now. Half-blood, half-breed, half-human.

McGonagall’s eyes narrow and she purses her lips. “You are not any less because of what you are, Harry. And whatever you have become, were made into, that responsibility rests onto us. Your parents would not have loved you less for it.” She is fierce, this woman, Harry now remembers. A lioness in the way she breathes, lives and protects.

“Thank you, professor.” Can words even express what he wants to say? Perhaps they fall short, but the message rings clear.

…

Hedwig does not return from her flight to London, Harry’s scar does not tingle a second time, the warmth of Cho’s fingers still lingers on his skin. He can still feel the wind, the rustle of the owls and the way that morning looked behind Cho’s shoulders.

Would she like him even now, fangs and stigma?

( _she had never liked him, her love lay dead in a hard wood coffin_ )

…

The evening is warm, most students asleep and Hermione’s whispers fill the common room. Harry stares at the burning logs in the fireplace, imagines the fire playing jokes and making faces at him. But no, there is a face hovering between the coals, Sirirus blinks away the soot.

“Harry, so good to see you doing well, old chap. Now, about that letter of yours; marvelous coding by the way!” The man looks alive again, less ghost and more human. “Evening, Hermione and Ron.” The greetings are hushed, however.

Harry and his friends fall on their knees before the fire, as if on prayer. But they would not, this world believes in no God, nothing that cannot be explained by magic. “Sirius, you cannot do this. That horrible woman, she--” Hermione is clutching a book in her hands, wrinkling up the pages.

“I know, I know. I’ll be quick.” Sirius takes over her, the mirror image of his face swims in and out of focus. “You said you scar hurt. Wait that’s not right, tingled, was it? Remus and I think it might not hurt like before because of your new predicament. Your kind gets a free pass in occlumency.”

“What’s that? Your scar hurt, Harry?” Ron switches from one key point to the other, his freckles a stark contrast with how his face has paled.

Harry looks at him, frowns. “Didn’t hurt, tingled a little. Nothing as before.” He breathes in and it feels easier, a little bit. “Sirius, was is that? The occlu-whatever it was you mentioned? I was th-- _hey_!” He jumps back as a fat and ring-adorned hand reaches within the fire and they are alone again.

…

He sits on the wet moss of the Forbidden Forest. The lights around him dance in the moonlight, the winds howl and Harry’s skin mends itself together again in the pale blue light of the sky. Luna is the only warm thing on the clearing, her hair molten silver against the eerie black.

“You are so kind, Harry Potter. Even when hunger leads you.” She hums a lullaby forgotten, her hand unclothed and skin dotted in red, red blood. “No wonder the forest loves you so.”

Harry, his lips dyed in Luna’s blood, breathes against her skin and drinks the last drops. His saliva heals the cuts, his fangs numb it. “You don’t have to be a monster just because you are a beast.” The boy laughs, his voice deep and eyes glazed over.

Centaurs pass by them with barely a glance. They welcome one of their own between these trees, just as any that they bring with. An understanding, a pledge, a common courtesy of those not human by blood (or, not human _anymore_ ).

….

Umbridge is High Inquisitor and everything crumbles in their hold.

Inspections in classes, degrees sent out as freshly baked bread (no clubs, no freedom, no _lies_ ) and punishment made severe. Harry stands before the sickly smiles and whispered poison, receives a detention that will mark him forever ( _his hand will bleed, his soul with harden_ ).

McGonagall will never know about how Harry sits in the wooden chair ( _hard as stone, cold as ice_ ), how he looks the demon in the eye and refuses to hide and pretend Cedric was an accident, the _Cruciatus_ an illusion and Voldemort’s mockery just a fever-dream. McGonagall will never know how his hand bleeds mud red and spells _I must not tell lies_ and the pen feels more like a sword in his hand than anything else.

Truly, one did not need to be a beast to be a monster of the darkest of horrors.

…

“Harry, you can teach us. You know more than anyone about Defense.” Hermione sits at the foot of his bed, her words hang heavy between the three of them. There are notes scattered around them, on occlumency and defense tactics, notes on vampires and other creatures born to walk during the dark. “You’ve been there and done that, you have fought V-Voldemort.”

Ron hisses low at the name that falls from her lips, but his whole body is taut and determined. “She’s right, you know. People listen when you talk, you know the things we learn better than anyone else, you _understand_ them faster than anyone else.” Ron breathes in, out. Then he slumps back into the soft covers of his bed.

Harry furrows his forehead in thought, pokes his own lip open with a fang. “I don’t know, I guess you are right. However, what about the vampire problem? Some might notice when it gets darker and closer to new moon? Remus taught us well.”

And wasn’t that a gift and a curse in one?

Hermione smiles, it’s a little shy and victorious in the candlelight. “Changing schedules, irrational patterns, _planning_. It’s all in the way you _propose_ , Harry.” Ron laughs with her, when she pushes forward plans written in black ink and her precise letters.

…

They are all cramped in one of the small backrooms of The Three Broomstick – a small army of kids that wish for a change, want to _learn_ , want to do something and rebel. Youth thrums the air and Harry can smell the excitement that bleeds out of their skin. It’s delicious, it’s addicting.

( _can he do it?_ )

Hermione wanted Hog’s Head, at first. Ron vetoed it, talked about wars and strategies, about spies and walls with ears.

“He is not here to be a Merlin damned exhibition to you all! Harry is here to teach us, to prepare us, to make sure we can _survive_ the war, the bloody outside world!” Ron breathes heavy, his face stoic and reminiscent of an army general. His words cause a hush in the questions. “Yes, Harry has done most of what you people have heard about and he can teach it to us. Better than that fucking nightmare of a woman will ever be able to.”

The kids ( _soldiers, the fate whispers_ ) agree on these, are excited for what is to come. Harry’s eyes are on Cho and the friend she took with, wild green unreadable and frozen on the girl with reddish-blonde hair and distrustful eyes. “No, not you.” He whispers into the air.

Names are signed on a paper with no jinxes cast on it (yet, once more). People trickle out of the room slowly, laughter accompanying the rumble of footsteps and loud conversations. Luna once more offers a walk through the forest painted in shadows.

…

Harry is a monster, he is the ultimate hunter hidden in sheep’s skin. He knows how Marietta’s blood smells, remembers the way walnuts and daisies lingered along the pale skin of her neck.

He tracks and he finds. The prey, the game, the girl who would have talked, _once_.

“I don’t trust you.” He doesn’t touch her, she feels old against his tongue for reasons Harry will never know ( _old magic, traditional magic, her mother in ministry never knows about the straw dolls and the pretty lace that burned bright_ ). “I don’t want to see you in the club, not anymore.”

Marietta strands straighter, raises her nose in the air and balls her fists. “I don’t even _want_ to be there. Cho made me go.” Her chest raises, her eyes shine bright. “You feel wild.” She whispers, afraid of the walls with the ears.

 “You will not come anymore, you will not tell.” An order breathed against her ear, his fingers cold and strong around her wrist ( _he touches, but for a moment, for the **fear**_ ). “And maybe, I won’t get angry.”

…

Dobby reveals the secret and Hermione passes it along to the students ready to become soldiers. A room where they can hide, a room where they are protected.

Harry watches from the shadows, still and dangerous as his eyes glint. Umbridge watches him back, reminds of the scar that sits on his hand unhealed. Dumbledore pretends to see nothing, hear nothing, speak nothing.

Cho catches Harry after the first meeting, Hermione and Ron stand behind their friend as guards. “Harry, I’m sorry, it seems like Marietta won’t be coming. I tried to make her, but she… I guess she doesn’t want to worry her mother. She works in the ministry, you know, it’s all very bad if Umbridge finds out.”

“My dad also works there; other parents simply hate Harry and think he’s a crazy lying psychopath. Somehow that doesn’t stop them.” Ron smoothes down the front of his robes, pats his pockets as if looking for something. “Besides, you forced her and she would be the first one to betray us.”

Cho purses her lips and anger sparks between the strands of her coal hair, “She would never--!”

“She would. And now she won’t.” Harry says with finality and leaves, mourns the love he still holds for the girl, the love that will never bloom. Not after this, not when the first winter bells ring of a distant war.

…

Christmas is dark.

Arthur Weasley is found dead days before the end of school semester, Ron and his siblings leave the school, McGonagall delivers the news to Harry and Hermione. ( _he has not cried for years, now he does for a friend_ )

Sirius meets the two of them at the entrance of his childhood prison, holding each other’s hand, and looks grim. There is silence, like death. There is mourning so deep like poison. Red hair and red eyes, bitterness layers the Weasley children like a disease.

“He did not deserve to die! _He did not deserve to die!_ ” The twins yell as one, the walls crack and things break. Magic is emotions. Magic is sorrow and happiness, anger and cold apathy. “Fucking Order! You can’t do _shit_ in the first place and now our dad is _dead_!” Ginny holds onto Fred’s arm, afraid to lose another one.

Harry looks at Sirius and thinks of Azkaban, of the first war, of the people that died young and so full of life. He thinks of his parents and then closes his eyes.

( _oh don’t, don’t cry my sweet, this world does not deserve your tears_ )

…

Sorrow passes in but a few days, anger and resentment comes next. Ron flexes his fingers and his mouth twists around the words of war. Hermione lays her head on his shoulder, recites the spells they have learned and will learn, still.

And then the wards waver and snap in place once more, Sirius trembles together with them. “Something just came in.” He raises his wand and lets the spells run freely. The air turns a light blue ( _like snow, like ice_ ) and they all stand frozen.

A woman comes through the door. She smiles at the broken family, the madman and the children before her – her gaze stays on only one of them, though, her child through ancient rituals made. Harry remembers her smell, her voice, her touch. The way she held him gently, kissed him with love.

“It’s you.” The boy breathes, his eyes a reflection of hers and something slithers down his veins.

The vampire laughs. “Ahhh, child of mine, I’ve come to visit you at last.”

…

Her hands hold Harry’s face in place as she examines the boy carefully. “You’ve done well, I am so proud, little one.” Her words don’t mock, her voice is soft as wool. “You’ll be strong and you will defeat your enemies. A strong child I’ve made, I knew I would.”

“Don’t-…! He is not your child!” Molly trembles with anger, with something like _how dare you_ painted across the freckles dusted on her face, wrapped around the shoulders she squared in determined displeasure.

( _he was mine to raise, mine to love, mine, mine, mine; her soul screams in her chest_ )

“But he is. Not birthed from my womb, but born from my blood. It flows in his veins, my life force his to take and grow with. He lost his soul, almost, so I offered my affection to guard it. Lily is the mother of Harry Potter, the human. Marceline is the mother of Harry Potter, the vampire.” Marceline’s eyes are frozen lightning, her body a weapon sharp and dangerous.

Dangerous they are – mothers. But _oh_ , how they love. With fierceness, with danger, with blades hidden in their sleeves.

…

The Weasley kids all train harder than anyone else – fire burns in their skin and their blood; they are fierce and still fester with anguish of loss. But they also understand better, now. Molly cannot protect the children, for children they are no more.

Death Eaters escape and Sirius is painted as the one to blame, Umbridge denies Gryffindor three of their quidditch players, Hagrid shares his secret about the little brother that barely fits in the forests.

( _war is coming, love, you better start getting ready_ )

Harry carves words into his hand s _till_. He pulls young Slytherins, whose hands bleed as well, in dark corners and kisses the pain away. He tells them the secret of their rebellion started out of desperation and woven in cold, hard steel.

( _and these children of the shunned house, the evil house, they come and they make friends, learn how to see over the fences built in hate_ )

…

The moon is but a black _nothing_ in the sky and Harry moves through the empty hallways like a shadow – quiet, quiet, _quiet_. His throat itches, his fangs are in _agony_. He needs to sink them in human flesh, he needs to feel warm blood drip on his tongue and down into his _being_.

He cannot ask for Luna now, he cannot go to Hermione. Not today.

But that other side, the hidden side, it breathes in the cold and exhales the thirst and the hunger. _Danger_ thrums his pulse, _danger_ the winds sing. Somewhere, a voice whispers _come here, come to me_ and he follows.

The forest is cold and dark, but Tonks taps Harry on the nose and laughs easily. “Hermione wrote me, smart girl.” Her arm is bare, her blood a pleasant weight in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

…

Rita Skeeter looks at Harry like he is a thing to cut open and examine. She licks her teeth, her chapped lips and looks through the boy whose life she _loved_ to use as her stepping stones. Firewhisky drips down her chin, smears along the velvet of her jacket.

“You will write what Harry says, word for word. Luna’s dad will publish it.” Hermione wraps her fingers around the glass of butterbeer and taps the heels of her boots along the wooden floors. “Chose to leave and I will obliviate you. Safety, just in case.” Her nails click along the glass – a general is born, out of dusty books and hundreds of copied texts.

Luna lays her head on Harry’s shoulder and hums a muggle song about sunshine to come. “Daddy will be happy to publish your story, Harry. He never did like to hide behind false truths.” She giggles, slim fingers hiding her lips, when Skeeter looks at her with open disgust.

“There you have it.” Hermione slaps a notebook and her own pens on the table. There is no other choice, since they dangle a tempting bait in front of the shark decorated in green.

…

“What is the meaning of this, Potter?” Umbridge slaps the Quibbler on her desk. Color dyes her face a ugly puce, her eyes wide in her displeasure ( _anger, anger born of hatred_ ). “You, you go and spread these _lies_ , even after I’ve told you countless of times to keep your dirty mouth shut.” Her chest raises and falls with every syllable.

Harry clenches his fingers in his lap, glares at the kittens that decorate the woman’s office. His scar hurts, his blood boils. It’s been spilled on these stone tiles so many times already.

But he keeps quiet, for if his mouth opens even Umbridge will be able to tell that there is only one human sitting in this room.

The woman clucks her tongue, glances at her wand. “Detention, Potter. And you can forget about quidditch as well.” But that had been taken from him a long time ago, an empty threat it was. “And if I see, or hear, you speaking of these, _these_ hallucinations of yours again… Well, I will let you imagine the outcome yourself.”

Harry leaves her office having said not a word. The shadows that he has become make his jaw long for something to tear and to murder. Patience, control, _humanity_.

…

Days pass. His small army learns how to ask for protection in the glow of a patronus on a cold march evening.  The school’s walls tremble with the force of their happiest memories, they tremble with the hate put behind Umbridge’s spells.

But no secret had been spilled out in the open. Dumbledore stays as headmaster, if only in name alone. The room stays a safe haven for those that seek it.

Harry’s head ( _scar, the fates hiss, it’s the scar_ ) hurts at times, but no dreams come and his temptation is not tickled. “I can’t sleep. Not like before. It’s like _he_ is trying something, but it’s not working on me.”

“Sirius did say you have natural occlumency now.” Ron leans forward and peers at his friend like all the answers are written out in the forest-green eyes. “Mind arts… He is trying to send something over the connection you two have?”

Hermione chews on a plastic pen she brought along from home, her brows are furrowed and she keeps going over and over old spells written on yellow book pages. “A message? No, probably not. Does he even know about your connection?” She sweeps her eyes over the back of Harry’s hand, the one that has the scars etched deep. “Don’t play into their plans.” The girl then whispers. It’s a spell stronger than anything else.

…

In the end Umbridge reins victorious and Dumbledore has to leave the castle. He goes in style, as always and in universes different from the one they live in. Phoenix fire scorches the yellowed stones and bright light blinds them all.

The Prophet posts slander on behalf of the Ministry. About Dumbledore’s insanity, about all the wrong turns and difficult choices made wrong. The Prophet takes it out on Harry, too. It tells that the boy is attention-seeking, lies through his teeth and since this year he has been weird, strange, _different_ since before.

“Post-traumatic stress disorder.” Harry slides his palm over the rumpled pages of his paper. “It’s called post-traumatic stress disorder, but I guess wizards don’t care about that.” He sneers, his fangs glint in the lights that shines above them.

Ron quickly glances around, worried and looking for the devil dressed in human skin. “Mate, control yourself.” He lowers his voice even more, a quiet whisper sneaking between the constant rumble of hundreds of voices. “We have, like, post battle stress and, and mental illnesses. But it’s still nothing people talk about freely.”

“Well, it’s stupid what it is. The muggles treat that, see it as nothing _evil_ or what have you.” Hermione pushes away her meal, glances at the unfinished potatoes and meat still placed on Harry’s plate.

( _people gossip, people talk, sometimes people find out the truth_ )

…

His scar hurts like never before. It burns, his head pounds and the dreams… they are no dreams; they are nightmares once more come to tear sleep into pieces. Winding hallways, a treacherous voice that begs and threatens Harry to move forward, to go there, to get something.

Harry wakes up in sweat. He breathes in deeply, the bright blue of his eyes lightning in the darkness of the room. His hands shake; his mouth is dry and _itches_.

The mirror, Sirius’ mirror, is cool against the fever of the boy’s skin. The glass dusty, perhaps, but Harry’s reflection is clear and shows what truly is. With a deep breath, the boy calls out to his godfather, watches the reflection shiver and ripple.

“Hey, bud. Isn’t this a bit early for calls?” Sirius looks like had had not slept at all, his eyes attentive and glinting with mischief, the dark circles under them an abyss of itself. “Did something happen?” The man asks again, takes in the vampire that is awake and easy to see.

Harry breathes deep, since that is all he can do, and runs his tongue over the sharpness of his own fangs. Calm, calm before the storm. “I had a dream, a weird one.”

…

Harry does not see the stories of his father from Snape’s memories; he hears them from Sirius and Remus. Through the mirror he learns what James Potter was – not the war hero, the brave man that fought, not even the James Potter that Lily Evans fell for.

Sirius and Remus talk about the James that loved pranks, who did not try but still got good marks, about the James Potter that was arrogant and stupid, at times. The two men talk about James that cared more than anyone else, who saw past a boy with scars and the monster that lived under his skin, about mistakes made and mended.

“James was a prick, at that age. But who isn’t? I was no better, probably haven’t changed much still.” Sirius sighs as he sips on tea laced with clear vodka ( _his own demons, his own nightmares that haunt_ ). “But he grew up.” It’s bittersweet, these memories. Because James Potter is forever twenty and already buried in cold earth.

“Sometimes, when I hear those stories about your dad, Harry, I can’t understand who they are talking about. Because the James I knew and the James they make him out to be are two different people. He was brave, but he was also merely human, with flaws and imperfections.” Remus laughs, his face young and handsome – his actual age.

Harry keeps these stories in his heart. He locks them tight and does not share. “And what about mom? What was she like?”

…

Future. Such a strange concept. Such a strange thought.

Career for the future, something you aim for. That is even stranger.

“So, Potter, have you thought of anything?” McGonagall asks as her fingers scurry over the pamphlets left before her, the careers of all kinds teasing from where they lay. “If not, we can decide on something right now. That is what I am here for.”

Umbridge snickers from where she sits in the corner of the office. Harry stares blankly at the roads of life before him. Auror he had thought about, but not anymore. To fight after he had already stopped fighting – too much. Teacher, perhaps, but no. Seeker is a passion indeed, but not enough to dedicate his life to. The sun is too bright still, now.

“Magical beasts.” He says finally, after Umbridge has finished all the reasons why he would be better fit as a decoration in the walls of Azkaban. “Hippogriffs, maybe testrals.” When he lifts his eyes McGonagall looks surprised, as if she expected a different answer.

But she accepts the one that Harry had given her. And she smiles. “Then in magizoology you will go, Potter.”

…

Exams come and go.

Harry’s little army, his brave students, they all do well with spells and hexes, even with theory. He is proud, so very proud of those he had taught so often.

O.W.L.s and simple exams, they all end calmly. Kids shine with confidence in their skills and knowledge, with belief in their own magic.  The kids that had been tormented by Umbridge, with their hands covered in blood, they all proved to be better and more than the woman will ever be.

( _and then it all crumbles to dust as the boy breathes, for the darkness wants him back_ )

…

Once more a long corridor sneaks out before him, the tiles cold under Harry’s bare feet. Something slithers against his ankles; a hiss in the shadows is louder than the screams coming from behind the door that stands before the boy. Harry still reaches forward and opens the door.

The light blinds him, at first. Voldemort stands before him – alive, frightening, dangerous. White teeth against the sickly grey of the man’s skin, those red eyes that burn anything they look upon. And Sirius lies before the Lord’s feet, beaten and bleeding as if punished.

“Come, Potter.” The snake hisses. “Or your godfather dies.” A pink tongue licks along the edges. Sickening, Harry feels like throwing up. “Be a good boy, unlike how you were last year.”

Glass breaks around the two of them, white mists float in front of Harry’s face and the world dims. Someone screams again and the boy blinks once to return from the land of dreams.

His scar is on fire, his mind even more so. And Sirius is about to die.

…

The mirrors do not work and the fireplaces are locked, monitored. Fear is acid burning Harry’s throat, his fingers shake where the boy had placed them on the worn-out knees of his jeans. Hermione is a warm, solid weight along his side. Ron looks down on the galleon they had enchanted for the army, for the kids that fight.

“Can we break into her office?” The strategist asks the nightly air, his teeth biting on his fingernails. “It’s still early morning, we should be able to get in without her noticing.” It’s all guessing games and possibilities. These little warriors don’t think of consequences to come.

Hermione slowly slides her palm in circles along Harry’s back. Her brown eyes hard chips of concrete as she gazes in the coals still breathing their last in the fireplace. “Her personal quarters are with the rest of the teachers, office at the defense classroom. We have the map and the twins’ toys.”

Harry licks his lips, his heart burns with _need_. Why now, of all the times? “We try that, then. Bu-but I can’t right now, I’m… I need to _drink_ , for some, bollocks! I think because he got into my dreams that side of me is restless now.” All of his skin itches for something to sink his claws into, for something to feed on.

Ron and Hermione share a glance and then nod. Ron picks up an empty glass left on the old tables, Hermione transfigures a knife. The blade is an unpleasant sting along the pliant skin of Ron’s arm. “Sorry mate, but I don’t want you slobbering all over my arm like that.”

Even now these kids ( _soldiers_ ) can still laugh.

..

The moss under Harry’s sneakers is moist with evening dew, the trees creak under the weight of secrets unleashed upon them. They creak as Grawp pulls on their roots with the ropes that hang loose around his ankles.

Umbridge trashes in the nets that hold her bound and unable to escape. A centaur steps on her wand and the wood splinters under the beast’s hoof, the core dies with one final breath of magic. The woman screams. “Potter, you tell them! Tell them to let me go! I am innocent, I am just!”

“Sorry professor,” Harry raises his hand that has been turned into a canvas of punishment, he smiles so wide that his fangs show and it’s ugly. His expression is ugly and disgusting; Hermione shudders where she clings to his shoulder. “But I must not tell lies.”

“Go, Harry Potter. But beware; the stars are not on your side this night.” Firenze bids them farewell and sounds die with the departure of the centaur pack.

When Harry and Hermioe stumble out of the forest and back into the moonlight Ron awaits them with his chest heaving and eyes fewer bright. The Weasley children are all there, so is Neville and Luna. They look ready - back straight and wands steady, a weird kind of energy streams along their muscles.

Luna drifts past them all and takes Harry’s hands in her own, as she has done before. “It will be okay, we’re ready to follow you, Harry. But don’t forget that it’s okay to cry as well.” And then she leads them to where the testrals await.

…

The Ministry is empty. There is not a soul in the halls, the offices, the guard posts. It smells like too much recent magic, like _violence_. Harry’s skin prickles with fear, with the anticipation of a prey walking into a trap.

But he is not pray, not anymore. ( _Luna’s hand is still warm and comforting around his cold fingers_ )

They sneak down, Fred and George at the back and their pockets full of inventions meant for pranks and war equally. The reach the Department of Mysteries, they stand in the round room with spinning doors and secrets of magic locked away. They walk past the Veil of Death and ghosts sing to Harry, tempt him to touch what should not be touched.

“No, no yet.” He whispers into the muffled taunts and walks forward, without looking back. Sirius is here, Voldemort is here. Destiny calls, he thinks.

…

“Good job, Potter. See, you can be useful at times. Now, pass it to me and maybe we won’t kill all your little friends.” Lucius smiles behind the knight mask _(Harry can hear the smile, he can hear the ridicule_ ).  The man’s glowed hand reaches out for the small ball clutched tightly in Harry’s fingers.

Bellatrix slinks in the shadows of the other Death Eaters, she licks her lips and taps her fingers along the metal shelves and scrapes them on the leather of her cloak. “Icky little Potty and his friends, ha-ha! _Oh_ and what is that? A Longbottom I smell? Oooooh, I remember your _parents_ , little orphan squib. They screamed so well for me.”

Neville _growls_ somewhere behind Harry, his shoes squeak along the tiles as he tries to move, to curse. “Let me go, Weasley. _Let me go_.” The boy hisses low and this is a new Neville they all see now. This is not the child that played with plants and soaked the warm daytime sun in his cheeks.

“Bellatrix, _please_. How some decorum, will you.” Lucius tuts in exasperation, though his wand never wavers to where it aims at Hermione’s heart. “ _Hurry up,_ Potter. Or do you need help with that as well?”

Harry clicks his tongue and nudges one of the Weasley twins, slides his foot along Luna’s. He breathes once and then clutches the prophecy tighter in his hold. “Sorry, I have a problem with authoritative figures and following orders.” The boy’s eyes shift from green to blue, back to green in an instant and then he yells, “ _Now!_ ”

Spells fly, orbs shatter. Black smoke covers almost everything as the kids, the students, the _fighters_ run and scatter. Death Eaters fall from unexpected spells and Harry can smell his friends’ blood flowing and dripping along the black floor.

( _run, he had whispered, run where you can and get away from this place, be safe, please_ )

…

Order members join them once there are injuries already marring the healthy pink of their skin. Grown men and women fight alongside schoolchildren, and both are equal at this very moment. Ginny’s and Luna’s spells cut even better than those that fly out of Tonks’ and Remus’ wands. The twins move as one, weaving through the battlefield as water that takes down everyone in the way.

Neville is a fire lit alive by hatred and hostility as sharp as wolf claws. Suddenly no one doubts the boy’s place between the Lions, for the child so fond of peace and warm sun roars with courage that surpasses even that of Shacklebolt’s.

Harry stands back to back with Sirius. Lucius tilts his head and smiles, venom drips from his lips and cold, pale eyes. “How _utterly_ adorable of a picture, Black. You hope to keep your dear Potter alive? Well, I certainly will not stop you from trying.” There is style and beauty in the calculating way that the man moves, builds his spells one atop the other.

“Come now, Lucy, we both know I was always the better duelist between the two of us. I doubt you are much of an opponent now, with your back pains and old man arthritis.” Sirius taunts back and his laughter is of forced cheer. His hand is steady, though, his spells shatter the stone as if it were made of cotton and strings.

Bellatrix’s screams echo against the Veil’s mist curtains and the chamber’s marble walls. “Shut up cousin, you’re no better than the rest of us. Azkaban treats no one _good_.” She slashes with her wand and dark red dyes the front of Emmeline’s robes. “Don’t run little Longbottom, I can _smell you_ from here. Shame to leave a job unfinished!”

Spells burn Harry’s skin as they fly past him, his head pounds a rhythm of war songs. The Veil whispers still, louder than the battle and the blood that slowly chips away at his control and sanity.

…

Even with his speed and his reaction, his senses that have gone into overdrive, Sirius still dies with laughter on his lips. The Veil does not claim him, though. Harry holds onto the warm body and screams his throat raw. Bellatrix coos at him from the sides, her yellowed teeth bared in a twisted sense of victory.

“I’ll kill you.” Harry hisses low, his eyes shine like beacons in the middle of the battle’s fury. “I will wring your neck with my own hands.” The boy can feel Remus’ hands on him, holding him back and away from the madwoman. But it’s too late. One death too late.

Bellatrix wiggles her fingers at him, her expression that of an amused child and her eyes sickly wide. “Oooooh, little Potter is getting _maaaaad_. Look at those eyes! I didn’t know you’re a filthy half-breed, my Lord will be glad to know of that.” She turns and runs away, nails scratching along the tiled walls.

And Harry hunts. He runs like never before, he keeps her scent above all the others. His hand goes through Bellatrix’s stomach, when he is close enough.

( _there is no way back, child, life for a life and blood for blood_ )

…

Voldemort stands in the puddle of blood (Bellatrix’s blood, her chest heaves with each wet inhale) and grimaces at the filth now smearing his boots. The man’s long, black robes slide after him without a sound. “Harry Potter…. My dear nemesis.” A snake’s hiss, a death’s ringing.

“Hello Tom. Fancy seeing you here.” Harry curls his fingers into fists, right one holding onto his wand tightly. The boy knows his eyes still glow eerily light in the dark atrium, his fangs now long and piercing the bottom lip. Blood drips down his chin. “Came for a cup of tea? I gotta say, their cafeteria is pathetic.”

Voldemort tilts his head to the side and licks his lips. Like a snake, Harry shudders. A slow smile spreads on the Dark Lord’s mouth and he opens his arms wide, shifts his weight just so. “I see that turning into a dark beast has not saved your horrible way of addressing superiors. A pity, I had such high hopes for you.” The man ignores his follower’s cries for mercy and forgiveness.

Harry wipes his chin with his sweater’s sleeve. “Life is pretty shit. I should know, this school year was the worst one so far.” And his heart thuds slowly, his soul aches because another important person in his life is dead. And there is no one else to blame but him.

“Charming. And yet, I do not care.” Voldemort raises his wand ( _elegance is what Harry thinks when he sees the way Tom holds it, moves it, swishes it in the air before them both_ ), “Now, I believe you have a prophecy I _need_ in your possession.”

Now it is Harry’s turn to mock and to laugh, to offer failure and arrogance before his enemy. “I don’t. Broke it back by the Veil. So sorry, Tom, it was an _accident_.”

…

Dumbledore comes and a battle of the giants starts. A show of magical power, a sight that sends shivers down Harry’s spine because the magic…. The magic was saturated, powerful, _so much more_ than he ever thought it could be. Harry can feel the hairs at the back of his neck raising, the beast inside of him raises his hackles against those more powerful.

“Come on, old man, aren’t you getting slow? You can do better than this.” Voldemort flicks his wand and fire comes to life, scorches and melts everything in its way. Glass breaks and wooden structures turn to ash.

Dumbledore moves with less grace, but there is still silent strength in every tap and every small move of his arm. Water and glass rises above Harry and the headmaster, fire trashes against them. “Now, now, Tom. You know how it is, patience is a virtue.” It’s mocking, it’s tasteless. It’s so much different from the Dumbledore that Harry thought he knew.

While these two _monsters_ continue to battle it out, Harry stands up and closes his eyes. Once more his scar hurts as if one of those window shards were digging into it, cutting him open. Not this time, not when this blind and foolish trust lead to the death of Sirius.

The vampire inside of him _purrs_ in pleasure – it’s surreal – and then there are shaky barbed wire walls built upon rubble and dust. ( _this human is mine, this body is mine, this mind is mine, all of this is only mine_ )

Fudge falls on his knees and the Ministry building still stands. Victory has never tasted as shallow.

…

Dumbledore’s gold knick-knacks and silver instruments lay shattered on the ground; the walls are cracked from the force of Harry’s magic and sorrow. Now that the boy has had time to think and to feel properly there is something hollow inside of him. A wound that bleeds with no blood and cannot be mended.

His throat hurts, his chest moves in an erratic rhythm with every breath. “I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to care anymore. I have had enough, I want out and I want _nothing_ to do with all of this _bullshit!_ ” Each word cames out louder, each syllable stronger, each sound more desperate than the last.

And Harry does not care. He kicks another little table against the wall and shatters another bookcase with thought alone. Feelings are horrible, twisted things that could both save and kill. And now, now they are killing him.

“But you do care,” Dumbledore is calm as always, does not even blink at the destruction before him. “You care so much, my boy, that you feel like tearing yourself open from pain.” There is just something patronizing that rings in Harry’s ears right now. And he wants nothing more than to reach out and tear the old man in pieces.

“I am not your _boy_.” Harry hisses and the vampire is back and it’s dangerous, vengeful. “You knew about him being able to see in my head, you knew about that Umbridge _monster_ and her detentions. And you ignored me, told me _nothing_.” The wand in the boy’s hand buzzes with magic, bright lights bounce along the tip.

Dumbledore looks old and worn, his face crumbles like house of cards. “I am responsible for Sirius’ fate, I confess. Had I trusted you more, then perhaps things would not have ended like they did. I am so sorry, Harry. For all the ways I have failed you.” Lies. Lies, lies, lies. Harry smells nothing but lies and his vampire stalks the enemy with every sense that is stitched into his body.

“If you were sorry, you would have done something about this sooner.” Harry is stone and he is ice. Forgiveness for something this _big_ has never saved him and it was time to let it go. “I don’t care about the prophecy. And I don’t care about the wards around the Dursley house. I am tired of being your fucking chess piece.”

…

“I’m glad you guys are safe.” Harry sits on Ron’s bed, for the first time in so long feeling relaxed and calm. As much as he can, as much as he allows himself to be. “The portkey took me away from the Ministry and no one told me what happened to you.”

Luna giggles from her bed. She is leaning against Ginny’s shoulder and her hair is a stark contrast against the burning coal red of the youngest Weasley child. “We are fine, my prince. Mungos have great nurses that knew a lot about all the plants I love so.” She pats Ginnys’s thigh.

Fred and George play cards with Neville, coaxing the boy out from his tired naps and sessions with burn salves. “Mom yelled at us so much. It was amazing. All we got was a few broken bones and cuts.” Fred laughs and shares secret glances with his sister. “Neville was something else though, when we split up. Kicked Yaxley straight into those creepy floating brains.”

Neville blushes red, though half his face is bandages and soothing peppermint salves. “The way Ginny broke that one guy’s leg though, that was pretty cool.” The boy mumbles, his eyes shying to where the girl still sits in Luna’s embrace.

Hermione laughs from behind her book. “I can’t believe we did that. Broke into the Ministry, fought Death Eaters. I never, ever thought I would do that. Honestly.” She runs her fingers along the bandages around her arms and gently touches her sides, breathes out in relief.

“I guess we have taught you well then.” Ron salutes her where he sleeps against the pillows, still tired and sore from the bones that had to be regrown and broken nose that had to be fixed. “And you were bloody amazing as well! Damn Hermione, it was something else.”

Hermione blushes, Ginny and Luna share amused giggles. Fred and George ruffle Harry’s hair as they leave and Neville falls asleep content and full of pride. Harry looks at them all and wishes so dearly he is able to protect them until the ends of the worlds.

…

Marceline stands on the platform as Hogwarts Express sleepily rolls into the stop. She is as still as a statue, as sure as a queen before her court.

“Ah, there you are, child.” She slides her fingers along Harry’s cheek, breathes in the cocktail of emotions that tumble around parents and children come together again. “Let’s go, there is much I wish to show you.”

And so Harry follows, for there is no other place left for him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are wondering about pairings and, like, subtexts of possible pairings, then those are up for your own personal interpretation. ;)


End file.
